Betrayal Never Comes From Your Enemies - Alpha One Series
by GuppyMckay
Summary: Charon's unexpected return, drives a wedge between Porthos and Aramis and sorely tests their friendship. Story is #2 of my Alpha One series. AU Modern Musketeers Features all the regulars of the show.
1. Chapter 1

**DISCLAIMER:- I do not own The Musketeers or its characters and no copyright infringement is intended.**

A/N:- As promised, I'm venturing back into the modern Musketeers realm with the second story in my "Alpha One" series. As the series is AU, you may find it a little difficult to follow if you haven't first read "The Musketeers – Alpha One." This story starts with our Musketeers in the middle of an ongoing crime investigation, therefore, there's a semi-lengthy narrative to bring you up-to-date. Hopefully, it's not too tedious.

Although I've brought these much-loved characters several centuries from where Alexandre Dumas intended, I hope you will still feel the camaraderie, brotherhood, duty and courage that Dumas instilled in them. It is unbeta'd and all mistakes are mine.

I would love to tell you that this story is complete and will be updated regularly but, sadly, that's not the case. As you will probably notice, I'm really struggling with my writing post chemo, and I'm desperately hoping for your tolerance as I work my way through the quagmire that was once my brain. Though I can't guarantee a timely completion to the story, I will guarantee a completion.

 **Betrayal Never Comes from Your Enemies**

 **Story Two of my "Alpha One" series**

 **Chapter One**

Without so much as a glance at the magnificent interior of the Élysée Palace, Treville strode purposefully toward the security station at the far end of the ornate entrance hall. The MASCAT commander was instantly recognised by the ranking Élysée Guard who gave a curt nod and waved Treville through the gate marked "Strictly No Admittance."

Ignoring the protests from his aging knees, Treville climbed the grandiose staircase to the first floor and _proceeded down the corridor toward the_ Salon Doré. He glanced at his watch and huffed in irritation – he was nearly twenty minutes late for his meeting with President Bourbon and the Minister for the Interior, Armand Richelieu.

Though he had no evidence to confirm it, Treville was certain that his long-time adversary, Minister Richelieu, was responsible for the "administrative oversight" that had neglected to inform him of this meeting until five minutes after it was scheduled to begin.

The dash through the heavy Parisian traffic left him frustrated and short-tempered and he battled to suppress his irritation, knowing that Richelieu would take great delight in his lack of composure.

Entering the outer office, Treville paused to greet the president's secretary. Claudette LeBlanc was an attractive red-head in her mid-forties who ran the president's office like a Swiss watch and guarded his schedule like a lioness would her cub. It was Claudette who had mentored and recommended Constance Bonacieux when the captain was in need of a highly efficient personal assistant.

"Good afternoon, Madame Le Blanc," Treville greeted.

"You are eighteen minutes late, Captain," she censored without looking up from her keyboard.

"My apologies, Madame. I was informed of this meeting only a short time ago."

Stopping her typing, she turned to him and raised a beautifully shaped eyebrow.

"Then you are indeed fortunate that there was a rare departure from the president's schedule while he attended to some important correspondence. Had you arrived as scheduled, as Minister Richelieu did, you would have been forced to wait seventeen minutes."

Treville huffed a laugh realising the change in the president's schedule could only have been brought about by his exceptionally capable secretary, more than likely following a discussion with Constance. Barely suppressing his mirth, he reached for Claudette's hand.

"You are as guileful as you are beautiful, Madame," the captain grinned as he placed a chaste kiss on her knuckles.

"Your roguish charm is wasted on me, Captain Treville," she returned with a twitch of her perfectly painted lips. "Now get along with you, the president is waiting."

The captain nodded his thanks and walked to the door of the president's private study. Taking a deep breath, he knocked firmly on the door before entering. President Bourbon was seated at the head of a large oaken conference table, Minister Richelieu seated to his right. The minister's eyes flashed with surprise and then irritation at Treville's unexpected arrival.

"Good afternoon, Mr President," Treville said as he closed the door behind him. "My apologies for my tardiness, I was across town when I was informed of this meeting."

Before the president could form a reply, Richelieu responded.

"We are all busy men, Treville, however, some of us managed to arrive on time," he remarked with a spurious smile.

"Your reputation for punctuality is well earned, Minister," Treville acknowledged with a nod of his head. "I'm quite certain the heavy elevator traffic from your office on the second floor, made for a frustrating and exhausting journey."

Traditionally, the office of the Minister for the Interior had always been located at the Place Beauvau. However, when President Bourbon was elected, Richelieu wasted no time in convincing him that it would be of far greater value if his office was close at hand. The president readily agreed, raising the eyebrows of many cabinet members who believed the arrangement to be both self-serving and an attempt by Richelieu to unduly influence the inexperienced president. It was still a topic of great conjecture and Treville rarely missed an opportunity to poke the bear.

The president sighed audibly and pinched the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger. Whilst he often grew weary of the frosty relationship between the two men, they were his most trusted advisors and a healthy rivalry between Richelieu's highly respected Gendarmerie and Treville's elite Musketeers kept both men on their game.

"Gentlemen, please, we've a lot to discuss," the president said. "Captain Treville, what is the status of your investigation into the Algerian gun-smuggling case? Are you any closer to making an arrest?"

Treville took his seat on the president's left. Taking a deep breath, he cast his mind back over the details of the case in question.

 _Four months ago, a munitions factory located outside of Avignon was targeted in a military-style strike and a huge stockpile of fully automatic weapons and ammunition was taken. The operation was slick and well-planned – a team of just ten men and not a trace of evidence left behind. The operation could not have succeeded without the assistance of two "inside men" – security guards employed at the factory. Twelve hours later, both security guards were found dead at their homes with their throats cut._

 _Despite an intensive investigation, Minister Richelieu's National Police and the_ _Group d'intervention de la Gendarmerie Nationale had yet to make any arrests in relation to the heist._

 _Three weeks ago, acting on an anonymous tip from Interpol, the Algerian Maritime Police had intercepted a large consignment of automatic weapons being shipped from Marseille Fos Port to the Port of Algiers. The weapons were traced back to the same munitions factory in Avignon and were bound for rebel coalitions in the Central African Republic. Worse still, they were to be used against French and UN peace-keeping forces._

 _Over-eager Algerian law enforcement agencies had quickly moved in to confiscate the weapons, rather than waiting for someone to arrive to at the docks to collect them, however, they had detained an Algerian Customs Officer, Farid Nazzar, and charged him with conspiracy to illegally import automatic weapons._

 _Facing a lengthy stay in an Algerian maximum-security prison, Nazzar had agreed to tell all he knew of the gun-smuggling operation in exchange for a more lenient sentence. But – much to Minister Richelieu's irritation - Nazzar insisted he would only divulge this information to France's finest – MASCAT._

 _Treville's premier team was two men down. Alpha One's previous assignment had resulted in d'Artagnan and Aramis both requiring surgery. While the two younger men continued their convalescence, Athos and Porthos travelled to Algiers to speak with Nazzar._

 _Upon their arrival, they had learned that their witness had been found in his isolation cell with his throat cut._ _With the Algerian government and prison officials in full "cover-up" mode, the Musketeers flew back to Marseille to continue their investigation on French soil._

 _Hooking up a video conference call to Treville at the Garrison, Athos and Porthos were not surprised to find their younger teammates had cut short their med-leave and were back at their desks - albeit on restricted duties._

 _They turned their attention to the Marseille Fos Port - questioning and quickly eliminating the owner of the shipping container of any involvement. Then, sourcing a list of customs officers and dockyard employees working from wharf 22 on the day the container was shipped, they set to work._

 _With Porthos and Athos conducting face to face interviews, Aramis and d'Artagnan had been assigned the arduous task of running background checks and sorting through the banking records of everyone on the list._

 _The investigation gained momentum when Aramis found three payments of 5,000 euros paid into the account of French Customs Officer, Patric Vasseur. The payments matched those paid to his Algerian counterpart, Nazzar, which led the Musketeers to believe that Vasseur had been paid to oversee the loading of the weapons in France while Nazzar had been paid to arrange the unloading in Algeria._

 _With their first real lead in 10 days, Porthos and Athos_ _had set off to locate Patric Vasseur, but found_ _his home unoccupied, a build-up of mail in the letterbox and the lawn in need of mowing._

 _Working tirelessly to trace the source of the funds paid to Vasseur and Nazzar, d'Artagnan found they had been electronically re-routed multiple times via numerous bogus international IP addresses and throwing up complex firewalls and anti-detection viruses. However, the Musketeers were all puzzled when the Gascon found that Vasseur had immediately transferred the three payments directly to the_ _Hôpital Institut Curie in Paris._

 _Following the money trail, Porthos and Athos returned to Paris and, soon after, found themselves standing in the children's oncology ward at the Hôpital Institut Curie where Vasseur's six-year-old son, Luc, was receiving treatment for acute lymphoblastic leukaemia. While there was no sign of Vasseur, his distraught wife was by their son's side._

 _Kamille Vasseur was an attractive young woman with the tormented and haunted expression of a mother forced to watch helplessly as her child battled a serious illness. The blankets and pillows piled on the nearby recliner chair left no doubt that she had been sleeping at the hospital for days, perhaps weeks._

 _Porthos' large heart almost broke at the sight of the boy, lying pale and listless and wearing an expression of defeat and resignation that should never be seen on the face of a child. Kamille leaned over to kiss the boy's bald head and whispered reassuringly to him before politely ushering the Musketeers into the corridor._

 _Quickly finger-combing her hair and squaring her shoulders, the young woman rallied her strength in defence of her husband. With red-rimmed eyes, she determinedly met their gaze and explained that Patric had been approached by a man when he'd been at his most vulnerable and desperately in need of money for life-saving treatments for their boy._

 _She assured the Musketeers that, until the final shipment was loaded, Patric had been completely unaware they were shipping weapons. Once the payment to the hospital had been made and the treatment had commenced, Vasseur had made the call to Interpol and had gone to ground, fearing that the cartel would learn of his deception and seek retribution._

" _He left you 'ere at the hospital?" Porthos had asked._

" _Patric left to protect us!" she replied staunchly. "He said we'd be safe here. That they were after him, not us."_

 _Athos and Porthos exchanged a glance, remembering that Nazzar had been murdered in an isolation cell in an Algerian prison. Whoever was running this operation had a long reach. Vasseur's family was his Achilles heel and his naivety had placed them in great danger._

 _Kamille swore that she did not know her husband's whereabouts. They had no friends or relatives in Paris - no one who would offer lodging to the family. MASCAT had monitored Kamille's phone in the hope of tracing her husband's calls but Patric contacted her sporadically, each time using a public phone from various locations throughout the Paris Metro._

 _Treville had assigned around the clock protection for Vasseur's family while Athos and Porthos attempted to win Kamille's trust and convince her that it was in her husband's best interest to turn himself in and pledging to do whatever they could to ensure Patric received leniency from the justice system._

Richelieu snorted as his intelligent eyes moved from Treville to President Bourbon.

"Mr President, it is evident that, after three long weeks, Treville and his… _Musketeers_ , have done little more than hand-holding and are clearly no closer to shutting down this operation," he stated. "Might I strongly suggest that you reassign this case back to my authority? My Group d'intervention de la Gendarmerie Nationale will expedite a resolution and see that these men are swiftly brought to justice?"

Treville's lips quirked in a humourless smile.

"Perhaps the Minister has forgotten that the GIGN had worked this case for three months before MASCAT's involvement. Remind me again, Minister, how many arrests were made?" the captain asked. "Furthermore, had it not been for Vasseur contacting Interpol himself, we may never have been aware that these shipments were happening right under the noses of the French Custom Services and the Maritime Gendarmerie. These agencies also fall under Minister Richelieu's purview, do they not?"

With his perfectly manicured hands steepled on the table before him, the president considered his senior advisors. This was not the first time they had raised opposing opinions and Louis was quite certain that it would not be the last. He cleared his throat quietly before replying.

"Whilst I agree that the expeditious resolution of this matter is paramount, Treville is quite right. This situation happened on your watch, Armand, and we must, in fairness, allow MASCAT time to work," he said, ignoring the flush of colour that rushed to the older man's face.

"Captain Treville, how confident are you that your men can find Vasseur and that he will cooperate?"

"Mr President, by all reports, Patric Vasseur is a good man caught up in a very difficult situation," he said. "He acted out of fear and desparation for his seriously ill child. My men remain certain that they will find him and convince him to work with them to shut down the operation."

The president pursed his lips before nodding his head.

"Very well," he said. "But if we do not have a resolution by the end of next week, I'm afraid I will have no choice but to reassign the case back to Minister Richelieu."

"That will not be necessary, Sir," Treville said, hoping he was right. "I have my premier team on it. They will not let us down."

 **-o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o-**

Aramis' vision momentarily whited out as he landed hard on the broad of his back. His chest heaved as he desperately tried to draw breath into his oxygen-starved lungs. He sensed, rather than saw, the menacing approach of his attacker and just managed to roll out of the way before the larger man dropped his entire weight onto the now vacant space. Regaining his feet with none of his usual grace, Aramis staggered a few steps and groaned internally as the larger man leapt to his feet. The aggressor was deceptively agile for a man of his size and determined not to allow the marksman any respite.

"Come on, Powder Puff," he said with an infuriating smirk. "Is that all you got?"

Knowing he couldn't match the man's bulk or strength, Aramis utilized his speed. Ignoring the painful protest of his left thigh, he feigned a move to the left but quickly moved to his right; successfully wrong-footing his attacker long enough to get behind him. Jumping on the other man's back, he wrapped his right arm around the man's throat in a stranglehold as his attacker thrashed beneath him.

The larger man bellowed like a wounded bull, thrashing wildly to break Aramis' desperate grip. Then, unexpectedly, the man threw back his head – his skull colliding sickeningly with the marksman's face. There was an explosion of pain as Aramis' vision grew dangerously dim. Without missing a beat, the larger man leaned forward to gain momentum, before launching himself backward - his considerable bulk landing heavily and effectively pinning the smaller man beneath him. This time, Aramis didn't move.

Watching from the bleachers a few yards away, d'Artagnan and Athos winced in sympathy of the marksman's predicament.

"Porthos," Athos drawled. "He is not yet cleared for active duty. Damage him further and you will answer to Treville."

"And don't forget the PSG game starts in two hours," the Gascon added. "If he has to watch it from a hospital bed, he'll never forgive you."

Porthos rolled off his friend and climbed to his feet. He offered his hand and assisted Aramis upright, holding on for a moment until the younger man had regained his equilibrium. The marksman swiped his arm across his face, staining the sleeve with the blood flowing freely from his nose.

"You alright?" Porthos asked, placing his hand on his friend's shoulder.

"I'm fine," Aramis replied, shrugging off the gesture. "Do you need to hit so hard?"

"Yeah, sorry 'bout that," Porthos grinned unrepentantly as he handed the marksman a towel.

Aramis scoffed, holding the towel to his nose to stem the bleeding.

"Your apology would appear more sincere if you didn't look quite so pleased with yourself."

The larger man chuckled amiably.

"You know, I've 'eard that some nosebleeds can last for days," Porthos said, stroking his beard thoughtfully. "Be a shame if I 'ad to give those VIP tickets to someone else."

"You wouldn't," Aramis replied with mock indignation. "They were a gift for my birthday, were they not?"

"Well, sure," Porthos shrugged. "But look at all that blood. Can't 'ave you faintin' on me…"

"There's a med kit in the locker room," Aramis told him as he turned on his heel and headed for the facilities. "I'll attend to this and be right back."

Porthos was joined by Athos and d'Artagnan. They watched as the marksman walked toward the locker room; altering his gait in an effort to conceal the fact he was still favouring his left leg.

"What do you think?" Athos asked. "Is he ready to return to active duty?"

"Nah," Porthos said with a shake of his head. "At least another week, maybe two."

"I concur," the lead agent replied. "Although he'll argue to the contrary, he needs more time."

"With all due respect, that hardly seems fair," d'Artagnan said. "If beating Porthos at hand to hand was a requirement for active duty status, we'd be a regiment of one."

"Which is why Aramis' performance was gauged not on whether he beat Porthos but on how he _attempted_ to beat Porthos," Athos explained.

"I gave 'im several opportunities to get the upper 'and," Porthos said. "A fully fit Aramis would've tried to knock my block off…today, he didn't engage. He aint ready."

"He's not going to like it," the Gascon remarked. "He's been complaining of boredom for weeks."

"He has no choice," Athos replied. "Nor will you when you complete your own fitness evaluation next week."

The younger man's hand unconsciously moved to his right hip, near the site of the newly healed appendix scar. He gulped audibly as his eyes met Porthos' predatory stare.

"More fresh meet," the larger man grinned ominously.

A voice called out from across the other side of the gymnasium.

"Some things never change."

Porthos' eyes darted toward the entrance where two men were leaning against the wall watching the proceedings with interest. His face lit up with a wide grin.

"Charon?"

"In the flesh," the man smiled.

The two men strode quickly toward each other - their handshake transforming into a backslapping embrace.

"Why didn't you tell me you were in Paris?" Porthos asked. "What are you doing 'ere?"

"For the last ten minutes, I've been watching you do your thing on the mats."

Rémi Fontaine, a member of Alpha Two, had escorted Charon into the secure building and now stood awkwardly nearby. He cleared his voice to speak.

"I take it you know him, Porthos," Fontaine said.

"Know 'im," Porthos replied. "We grew up together…as brothers."

"Then I'll leave him with you and return to duty."

"Yeah, thanks, Rémi," the former Marine replied before addressing his old friend. "Why didn't you tell me you were comin'?"

"A good operative never gives up the element of surprise," Charon laughed.

"How's Flea?"

"As strong-willed and independent as ever," Charon replied.

"Did she make the trip with you?"

"No. The trip came up suddenly and she wasn't able to get away."

"Next time then, yeah?" Porthos said. "Come…meet my friends."

Porthos slung an arm around Charon's shoulders and led him to where Athos and d'Artagnan were watching the reunion take place. Still grinning from ear to ear, Porthos performed the introductions.

"It's a pleasure to meet you," Athos said with a customary nod of his head as he shook the man's hand. "Porthos speaks of you in the highest terms."

"It's good to finally put a face to the legend of Charon," d'Artagnan teased his large friend as he, too, shook the visitor's hand.

With a bloodied towel draped around his neck, Aramis walked from the locker room.

"You see? The nosebleed has been taken care of and now there is nothing to keep us from-" the marksman stopped abruptly when he noticed the stranger standing among them. "My apologies," he said with a quick nod of his head. "I didn't realise we had company."

"Charon," Porthos said. "I'd like you to meet-"

"Powder Puff, is it?" Charon grinned.

Porthos snorted a laugh which he extinguished quickly when he found himself on the receiving end of the marksman's glare.

"Only to that big lug," the younger man replied with a grin. "I usually go by Aramis." He extended his hand in greeting then awkwardly dropped it by his side when Charon didn't acknowledge it.

"Porthos didn't mention that you were in Paris," Athos remarked.

"I flew in from Africa this afternoon and thought I'd surprise him," Charon explained. "Might have known I'd find him putting the recruits through their paces."

Aramis' eyes lost their natural warmth and he felt the muscles in his jaw tightening.

"Aramis is no recruit," Porthos defended. "He was one of the agency's first commissioned Musketeers."

"I meant no offense," Charon told Aramis. "My observation was based purely on your performance on the mat."

Aramis replied with a smile that looked more like a grimace.

"Well, we all know how easy it is to call the play from the bleachers," he replied with forced-politeness.

"Charon's one of the best exponents of hand to hand I've ever known," Porthos enthused. "He really used to put me through my paces."

"Of course he did," Aramis muttered under his breath.

"You don't mean…" d'Artagnan's eyes shifted excitedly between Porthos and Charon. "You actually _beat_ Porthos at hand to hand?"

Charon shrugged.

"Once or twice," he replied nonchalantly.

"He's bein' modest," Porthos told them. "Charon taught me everything I know."

"Then before you leave Paris, you must share your secrets," Athos said. "Porthos has been crushing Musketeers and cadets into the mats like grapes for far too long."

"And enjoying every moment of it, I'm sure," Charon laughed, clapping his friend on the back before returning his attention to Aramis. "I must say, I expected a much higher skill-level from the infamous Musketeers."

Aramis felt his stomach clench and a rush of heat coloured his cheeks as he tilted his chin defensively. Sensing the marksman's growing irritation, Athos placed a calming hand on the younger man's arm and turned to Charon.

"Aramis was recently badly injured," he explained. "That bout was part of his fitness evaluation."

"Let me guess," Charon said, eyeing Aramis appraisingly. "The injury was to his upper left thigh…if I had to guess, I'd say the flexor muscle…either a knife or a gunshot wound."

"You could tell that from watching?" d'Artagnan asked.

"Of course. Whenever he circled Porthos, he did so from the right to protect his left and weaker side. Porthos offered him several opportunities to sweep with his left leg and he refused them all. And towards the end of the bout he reached his hand to his left thigh several times; no doubt trying to massage his cramping muscles."

Aramis bit down on the stern words that were trying desperately to escape and plastered a fake smile on his face.

"Well, fortunately for me, you aren't the one signing off on my evaluation."

Athos cleared his throat quietly.

"Nevertheless, Charon's observations are accurate," he said.

The marksman turned his pleading eyes to his lead agent.

"You're not serious."

"Another week," Athos told him.

"Athos-"

"No arguments. You are not yet ready for active duty and you know it. We will schedule another evaluation in a week. Until then, you will continue your physiotherapy and restricted duties."

Aramis gave a curt nod in response and averted his eyes. He straightened his spine when d'Artagnan threw a companionable arm around his shoulders.

"We've already endured three weeks at home and two weeks of desk duty, what's another week?" the younger man said hoping to lighten the mood. "Besides, in a few hours you'll be enjoying watching your beloved _L_ _es Rouge-et-Bleu._ You won't give work a second thought."

Aramis sighed in resignation.

"You're right, of course," he conceded, quashing his disappointment and offering a strained grin. "It is but another seven days."

Nodding his head at Aramis' apparent acceptance, Porthos turned back to his childhood friend.

"How long will you be in town?" he asked Charon.

"A few days. I have some meetings and appointments. I was hoping we could have dinner."

"Tonight?"

"I know its short notice but I find myself in need of your counsel."

"I already 'ave plans with Aramis tonight," Porthos explained. "We're going to the PSG game at Parc des Princes."

Charon sighed audibly.

"I know I should have called first but…I just wanted to surprise my closest friend," he said before turning hopeful eyes to Aramis. "Surely you wouldn't begrudge two old friends reacquainting tonight. After all, it's just a game of football, right?"

Once again, Aramis found himself uncommonly irritated.

"The decision is not mine to make," he replied, the smile on his face contrasting with the hardness in his eyes. "How Porthos chooses to spend his time is entirely up to him."

"Porthos?" Charon said. "What do you say? Dinner with an old friend or greasy galette-saucisses at some football match?"

Porthos looked decidedly uncomfortable. He cast his mind back several weeks, to Aramis' birthday. Despite hours of gruelling physio sessions, the marksman's recovery was not progressing as quickly as he would have liked - he was frustrated and in more pain than he was letting on. Knowing his younger friend was a die-hard PSG fan, Porthos had tried to get tickets to an upcoming game but found it was a complete sell out. Unperturbed, he contacted Jacques Moreau, the Parisian millionaire stock-broker whose son, Julien, had been kidnapped and then safely returned home by Alpha One during their previous case. Moreau's company was a major sponsor of the Paris St Germaine Football Club and Porthos had asked the man if he could arrange a couple of tickets for the marksman's upcoming birthday. The former Marine had been gobsmacked when two VIP tickets arrived the following day. Aramis had been thrilled; he threw himself into his physio with renewed vigour and, as the game approached, it had been all the marksman had spoken about.

Porthos' dark eyes then flicked to Charon – the man he'd known since he was five years old. They'd grown up together - even joined the Marines together. For many years, Charon was the closest thing to family that Porthos had. Though he hadn't seen the older man in over four years, Charon was in need of Porthos' advice and the former Marine felt compelled to help in any way he could.

Sensing the larger Musketeer's conflict, Aramis sighed; although Charon had quickly got under his skin, he couldn't, in good conscience, force Porthos to choose between them. Carding his fingers though his sweaty hair, he conjured up a smile for his friend.

"It's fine, Porthos," he said. "Perhaps d'Artagnan would care to accompany me to the game in your stead?"

D'Artagnan's eyes widened in disbelief.

"Are you serious? I'd love to go…but…are you sure you wouldn't rather take Athos?"

Aramis and Porthos exchanged a sly grin and d'Artagnan's eyes narrowed suspiciously.

"What am I missing?" he asked.

Athos placed his hand on the young man's shoulder.

"Whilst I'm grateful for your generosity," the lead agent told him. "You should know that the level of enjoyment I derive from attending a sporting fixture is equalled only by the level of enjoyment I derive from having root canal."

Surprised by Athos' statement, d'Artagnan turned wide eyes to Porthos who nodded in confirmation.

"Then d'Artagnan and I will attend the game while you and Charon…catch up," Aramis said.

Porthos met the younger man's gaze.

"You're sure you don't mind?" he said. "This was supposed to be your birthday celebration and all."

"As Charon has already pointed out, there will be other football games...and other birthdays."

"I'm gonna make this up to you, yeah?" the former Marine told him.

"There is no need," Aramis insisted. "Go; enjoy. We will see you for breakfast tomorrow."

"Oh, wait," Porthos said reaching for his wallet. "I promised young Luc Vasseur that I'd bring him a PSG beanie. Turns out he's a fan, too. Don't suppose you'd mind-"

"Put your money away," Aramis told him. "It would be our pleasure."

"Then that's settled," Charon said before Porthos could change his mind. "I have a suite booked at Le Meurice. I'll go check in and make a reservation for dinner in the restaurant downstairs."

Porthos whistled.

"Le Meurice? The security consultancy business must be thrivin'," he chuckled.

"I made Junior VP a few months back," the older man grinned.

"What? You never told me!"

"I wanted to make sure it was working out before I made it known."

Porthos met the other man's gaze.

"I'm so proud of you, brother," he told him with a voice thick with emotion. "Tell you what…cancel the booking and come stay at my place."

"I wouldn't want to impose."

"Don't be daft. My guestroom isn't as flash as a suite at Le Meurice but it's big and it's clean and as long as you don't expect breakfast in bed, we'll be fine," he said turning to Athos. "We finished for the day?"

"I have a meeting with Treville but the rest of you are free to go," Athos replied.

"You 'eard the man," Porthos said to Charon. "I'll grab my bag and we'll leave right now."

Both men took several steps toward the exit before Porthos stopped and turned back.

"Eh? You keep your eye on 'im, yeah? Keep 'im outta trouble."

D'Artagnan huffed a loud sigh and crossed his arms over his chest indignantly.

"Just so you know…this over-protective, big-brother thing you all have going on is touching but totally unnecessary. I may be relatively new to Paris but I am over twenty-one and quite capable of attending a football game without Aramis having to watch over me."

His three teammates stood silently for a moment until Athos cleared his throat.

"I believe Porthos was suggesting that _you_ should watch over _Aramis_ ," he stated flatly.

D'Artagnan looked stunned as he turned to Porthos who nodded his head emphatically.

"Last time 'Mis went to a game without me, he started a ruckus with opposin' fans and spent the night in a holding cell. I thought Treville was gonna 'ave his 'ead."

"You're kidding?" d'Artagnan uttered.

Aramis stepped forward, placing both hands on the younger man's shoulders.

"Do not listen to them, my young friend. They both have a propensity for false truths and elaborate exaggeration."

"So…none of that happened?" d'Artagnan asked.

"Oh no, it happened," the marksman replied. "But, for the record, I did not spend the night in a holding cell…it was only four hours."

"And the fight?" the Gascon asked.

Aramis placed both hands over his heart.

"On my honour, I did not start that affray," he replied with a mischievous smile and a casual shrug. "I merely ended it."

Porthos shook his head and chuckled.

"Like I said…keep an eye on 'im and keep 'im outta trouble," he told the Gascon before pointing a finger at Aramis. "And **you** …be'ave yourself and enjoy the game, yeah?"

"I have VIP tickets and d'Artagnan by my side…how could I not?" Aramis replied.

As they said their goodbyes, Aramis felt an inexplicable stirring in his gut as he watched his best friend leave the gym with Charon by his side.

 **-o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o-**

 **A/N: I dearly hope that all made sense. If I've left you totally confused, feel free to PM me. Thank you, so much for taking the time to read it. Gabby**


	2. Chapter 2

**Betrayal Never Comes from Your Enemies**

 **The Musketeers – Alpha One**

 **Chapter Two**

With his younger teammates heading out for a rare night off, Athos checked his watch, noting he had another forty minutes before his scheduled meeting with Treville. He made his way quickly from the gym to the breakroom in search of a cup of coffee and frowned in irritation when he found the coffee machine in several pieces, strewn haphazardly along the counter.

Settling instead for a cup of tea, Athos left the teabag steeping in his mug as he headed for Alpha One's designated office and took his place at his desk. He lifted the handset of his phone and checked in with Alpha Four who were assisting with the protection duty of Kamille Vasseur and young Luc at the hospital. Assured that all was well, the lead agent switched on his computer to check for any updates on their case.

Accessing his emails, his eyes zeroed in on a long overdue report, received from the Algerian Minister for Corrective Services and he hastily read the summary page. Had the situation not been so serious, Athos would have laughed. He wasn't sure whether the Algerian government was motivated by the fear of global humiliation or the burning resentment of having to explain their ineptitude; nevertheless, they had refused France's numerous offers to send a team from Paris to conduct an independent inquiry into Nazzar's death in custody.

The Algerian government had conducted their own investigation and, two weeks later, had finally provided reports of their findings and of the customs officer's autopsy. The lead agent cursed under his breath - the lack of detail and conclusion in the reports was farcical at best. They reported that all CCTV cameras close to Nazzar's isolation cell had inexplicably malfunctioned moments before the murder. In addition, all warders assigned to the isolation cell block that day had been interviewed and cleared of any wrongdoing.

"Of course they were," Athos muttered.

Athos clicked on a large attachment that contained grainy CCTV footage of all visitor arrivals and departures from the prison that day. The lead agent had no doubt the footage had been doctored but he made a mental note to have Aramis cast his keen eyes over it in the morning and check it for abnormalities.

He sighed deeply and scrubbed at his tired eyes. Though it had only been three weeks, Alpha One had already devoted an enormous amount of hours to this investigation - pouring through banking records and personnel files, placing BOLO's and developing computer programs to trace the origin of funds paid to the customs officers. But Athos knew their best hope of a breakthrough rested with the Vasseur family. He was almost certain that he and Porthos had gained the trust of Kamille Vasseur. If she, in turn, could persuade her husband to turn himself in, Athos was sure his Alpha One team could resolve the case quickly. Right now it was a waiting game and, as a man of action, Athos was not possessed of unlimited patience.

Noting the time, Athos shut down his computer and climbed wearily to his feet for his meeting with Treville. He entered the outer office to see Constance, with her hands balled on her hips and an annoyed expression as she hovered over a technician. The man appeared to be working on the photocopier in the corner of the reception area and the groundsheet protecting the carpet was littered with the internal workings of the high-tech office machine.

"You can fix it, right?" the young woman asked the technician.

"Not as it stands, Madame, some of the parts are missing," he replied.

 _"Missing?"_ she exclaimed.

"I may have some spares in my truck but if I don't, I'll have to order them in…I'm afraid this isn't covered under the warranty agreement," the man said apologetically.

The young woman's shoulders sagged in resignation.

"I'd appreciate it if you could put a rush on the order. We already have a backlog of files that need scanning."

"I'll do my best, Madame," the tech promised as he made his way out of the building.

Constance started back to her desk as Athos approached from the opposite direction. He pointed his chin in the direction of the disembowelled photocopier.

"Problem?" he asked.

"Are you really interested?" she asked, her irritation evident.

"Not in the slightest," Athos deadpanned.

"That's what I thought," she replied with a wry smile. "The Captain's expecting you. You can go right in."

Nodding in acknowledgement, Athos knocked on the door to the Captain's office and waited for the gruff response before entering.

"You wanted to see me, Captain," he stated, his eyebrow quirking at the unusual sight of Treville standing behind his desk while awkwardly leaning over his computer.

"Athos, come in," he said, giving his lead agent his full attention and getting right down to business. "I had a meeting with the President and Minister Richelieu this afternoon. The minister believes our progress on the gun-smuggling operation is unsatisfactory. He has urged the president to reassign the case back to GIGN."

"Imagine my surprise," Athos drawled.

A ghost of a smile played across the older man's lips but quickly disappeared as he continued.

"I do not have to tell you that the minister is no fan of MASCAT. Every perceived failure is twisted and used to persuade the president to abrogate our agency."

"We have had but three weeks to work this case and have left no stone unturned in our investigation," Athos calmly protested. "Richelieu's finest were assigned this case for four months and made little to no headway."

"I agree. Nevertheless, the president has given us just one more week to break this case or Richelieu's GIGN will have their opportunity for redemption," Treville said. "I know Alpha One is not yet at full strength but there's a lot riding on this. I'll continue to approve all overtime requests until this case is closed."

Athos winced internally.

"I've stood the team down for the evening," he said, continuing before Treville could voice his protest. "They were all in need of night off, Captain, and will be back at their desks early tomorrow."

"And should there be a breakthrough tonight?"

"D'Artagnan has synced the office computer to his cell. Should we get a hit on our BOLO's or any of his electronic traces, he'll call it in. We won't let you down, Captain," he stated sincerely.

"I know," the captain replied.

A moment's silence passed between them and Athos frowned as the older man uncharacteristically shuffled his feet and cleared his throat.

"Is there something else?" the lead agent ventured.

"Aramis had his fitness assessment this afternoon, did he not?" he asked.

"He did," Athos replied succinctly.

"And?" Treville pressed.

"He requires another week of restricted duty. Perhaps two."

Treville sighed audibly and ran his hand over his jaw.

"Captain?" Athos asked.

"You're certain he can't resume active duties any sooner?"

"Are you suggesting I approve his reinstatement before he is fully fit?" Athos asked.

"No! Yes! Of course not!" the captain huffed, carding his fingers through his short-cropped hair.

Athos narrowed his eyes at the captain's rare uncertainty.

"There's something you're not telling me."

Sighing in resignation Treville looked at his second in command.

"Aramis has me at my wits end," he stated plainly.

"Welcome to my world," Athos drawled, affectionately. "However, in his defence, Aramis' contribution to this investigation has been to his usual high standard. He is working hard at his rehabilitation and keeping up his hours in the firing range. He regularly stays longer than his required hours to lend assistance where he can."

 _"Exactly!"_ Treville said. "It's those extracurricular activities that I have a problem with."

"I'm not following…" Athos said with a small shake of his head.

"He's restricted to the garrison," the captain said. "He's deskbound…and bored. As you know, when Aramis is bored he has a tendency to become…"

"A monumental pest," Athos finished, the corner of his lips twitching in a grin.

"I would call that somewhat of an understatement," Treville said. "I'm sure you noticed the condition of our photocopier?" the captain asked, waiting for the younger man's nodded reply. "The thing costs as much as a small apartment, yet, for a reason known only to Aramis, he took to it with a screw driver and…well…you saw the result for yourself."

Athos grimaced.

"Three days ago, I made a passing remark to Constance regarding a squeaky wheel on my chair. Apparently Aramis overheard. I returned from a meeting and damn near broke my neck when then thing fell apart beneath me. I've had to send it to be repaired."

Athos swallowed a smile at the imagery and attempted to defend his marksman.

"I'm certain his intent was sincere even if his execution was-"

"Spectacularly inept?" the captain finished.

"Harsh but accurate nonetheless," Athos agreed.

"A note to the wise," Treville told him. "If you wish to keep your marksman in one piece, keep him out of the motor pool. It was all I could do to keep Serge from taking to him with a lug-wrench when he discovered Aramis had re-organised the workshop. Serge can't find a blessed thing!"

Treville shook his head and huffed a laugh. Grabbing his empty coffee mug, he rounded his desk and clapped a hand on Athos' shoulder as they walked toward the outer office.

"Double his physio sessions if you must," Treville said. "But get him back to active duty before he destroys the place."

"Yes, Sir," Athos replied as the older man nodded his approval.

"Get some rest," the captain told him. "I'll expect Alpha One to be on site at zero six hundred."

Treville turned to see his PA still at her desk.

"Constance, I thought you'd gone home."

"I was just about to leave but wanted to make sure you didn't need anything," she replied.

The captain held up his empty cup.

"Just a coffee and I am quite capable of fixing that myself," Treville grinned as he made for the break room. Turning on his heel, the captain looked at his second in command. "Athos, see Constance safely to her car, would you? I'll see you both in the morning."

Taking up the young woman's coat, Athos held it open as she slipped her arms into the sleeves and grabbed her purse.

"At your service, Madame," the lead agent said as he offered his arm.

"Go on with you," Constance smiled coyly. Taking his arm, they walked toward the elevator. "I work in one of the most secure complexes in Paris, yet the captain still insists someone walks me to my car each night."

"He thinks of you as a daughter," Athos said, pressing the call button for the elevator. "You must allow-"

The lead agent stopped mid-sentence as if he'd been struck dumb.

"Athos?"

He turned to her, wide-eyed, as the memory of finding the dismantled coffee machine forced its way to the forefront of his mind. He was certain the dismembered kitchen appliance was more of Aramis' handiwork and had no intention of being in the firing line when Treville found it.

"What is it?" Constance asked as Treville's expletive echoed loudly from the break room.

"Damn it, Aramis!" The captain's heavy footsteps started toward them. _"Athos!"_

Constance emitted a small squeal as Athos all but dragged her to the fire stairs and closed the door behind them.

"What are you doing?" she asked, looking at him as if he'd gone mad.

"Call it an exercise in work safety practices," he quipped as he held her elbow and hustled her down the stairs.

 **-o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o-**

Aramis gazed solemnly out of the passenger-side window of d'Artagnan's car as they made the journey from the Garrison to Parc des Princes. He'd been looking forward to this game for two weeks, yet, there was an inexplicable tightening in his gut and he couldn't drag his thoughts away from Porthos. He was disappointed his best friend wasn't at his side, even though d'Artagnan shared his passion for football far more than the former Marine.

He cast his mind back to the gym where he had met with Charon. Aramis was, generally, affable and easy going, yet it had taken less than a minute for Charon to get under his skin. It seemed as if the man went out of his way to needle him and the marksman didn't understand why. Even though they had lived on different continents for more than four years, the man was a huge part of Porthos' life and Aramis had always imagined that he and Charon would get on famously. So why was he feeling so uneasy?

D'Artagnan shot a worried glance at his passenger, concerned by the man's uncharacteristic silence. They had been driving for twenty minutes and Aramis had yet to critique the younger man's driving ability; he had not yet suggested a faster route; nor had he scanned the radio channels until he found a song to which he could loudly sing along. The overhead lights of Parc des Princes shone brightly up ahead as the Gascon tried to break the silence.

"You're sure you don't mind?" he asked.

"Hmm?" Aramis replied, startled from his thoughts. "Mind what?"

"I know you were hoping to see this game with Porthos," d'Artagnan explained. "Are you sure you don't mind me taking his ticket?"

"You didn't _take_ Porthos' ticket, I _offered_ it to you…and I'm very pleased you accepted."

Having finally got the marksman speaking, d'Artagnan was loathe to let up.

"So…that was Charon," he said. "I have to admit he's not as I imagined."

"Oh?"

"The way Porthos speaks of him, I expected him to be ten feet tall."

"To Porthos, he _is_ ten feet tall," Aramis replied.

"So…what's their story?"

Aramis looked away, momentarily gathering his thoughts before leaning back in the seat and turning slightly to face his younger teammate.

"Porthos and Charon grew up together," he began. "They met in a children's home when Porthos was five years old; Charon was but a few years older. They bonded like brothers and always hoped to be adopted as such. But when the home tried to split them up, they ran away and started living on the streets."

"On the streets! How old were they?"

"Porthos wasn't yet ten."

"How did they survive?" d'Artagnan asked.

"Being so young, they couldn't go to shelters or other charitable organisations for fear of being reported to the authorities and taken back to the home. They lived in alleyways and flophouses; getting money and food anyway they could. They learned to take care of themselves and each other – they learned to survive."

"That's a hard existence for anyone, let alone children," d'Artagnan said, shaking his head. "I had no idea that Porthos had lived through all that. When did he join the Army?"

Amaris sighed, not sure whether this part of the story was his to tell. But d'Artagnan was part of the team now, an integral part of Alpha One; a brother.

"There was some trouble, a few years later," Aramis continued. "According to Porthos, they got mixed up with the wrong crowd and did some things he wasn't proud of."

"What kind of things?"

"He never said and I've never asked. Needless to say, they got caught. Porthos was sixteen and was headed to Juvie but Charon was nineteen. The Judge gave him a choice – prison or the Armed Forces. Porthos was in Juvie for a week before he managed to escape. He was large for his age so Charon paid for a fake birth certificate that said he was eighteen and they both enlisted in the Army Troupes de Marines. They served most of their time in Africa and were involved in some pretty heavy shit."

"That's where their unit was awarded the Médaille militaire," d'Artagnan stated.

"And where Porthos almost died," Aramis added. "He and Charon were on an intel-seeking assignment deep in the Congo when Porthos took a bullet to the chest. Charon was hurt also but somehow managed to call for a "dust off" and get Porthos the hell outta there. After they'd recovered, Porthos got his Army discharge and returned to Paris. Charon chose to stay in Africa."

The Gascon's expression was coloured with awe and respect.

"So…Charon saved Porthos' life, is the recipient of the Médaille militaire, a former member of the Army Troupes de Marines, an expert in hand to hand combat and Junior VP for a large security firm," the younger man said. "Sounds like he'd make a great Musketeer?"

Aramis blanched. He hadn't thought of that but, according to Porthos, Charon's injury had left him medically unfit for the Army and had brought an end to his military career. It was unlikely he'd pass the MASCAT physical.

D'Artagnan eyed the marksman curiously.

"You don't like him, do you?" the younger man guessed.

"I don't _know_ him," Aramis replied, neither confirming nor denying the claim.

"But you do know Porthos and he strikes me as a good judge of character," d'Artagnan stated as he swung the vehicle into the first available parking spot.

Aramis scoffed.

"He's a terrible judge of character…especially when he's sober."

"Well, that's a discussion for another day," the Gascon said, switching off the engine and opening the driver's side door. "Grab those VIP tickets and let's go enjoy the game…and Aramis…if you do anything to get us arrested, I'm going to take it _very_ personally."

The marksman was a picture of wide-eyed innocence as he grinned in response. Supressing the uneasy feeling in his gut, Aramis alighted from the car and jogged to catch up with his young friend.

 **-o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o-**

"Something smells great," Charon said as he walked from the guestroom in Porthos' apartment into living room.

The large Musketeer looked up from the small servery in the kitchen.

"Perfect timing," he grinned. "Come and get it while it's hot."

Joining his friend at the servery, Charon nodded his head in approval.

"I always said you'd make someone a fine wife someday," he joked.

"Shut up and eat," Porthos chuckled. "It's nothing fancy like they'd serve at Le Meurice but you can't go wrong with meat and three veg, yeah?"

Charon dropped his gaze to the table; the smile disappearing from his face.

"You alright?" Porthos asked.

Taking a deep breath, the older man exhaled through his nose.

"Porthos, I…I'm sorry, mon frère, I…I lied to you this afternoon."

The Musketeer's surprise was obvious and he gave his friend his full attention.

"I didn't have a booking at Le Meurice and…I never made Junior VP at Kruger Security. In fact, I quit several months ago."

"What?" Porthos exclaimed. "What the hell 'appened?"

"It was just one of those things. I was up for Junior VP and thought I had a real shot at it…but the board brought in some kid with a university degree and they promoted him over me. Call it foolish pride but I handed them my resignation on the spot."

"I'm sorry, man," the Musketeer said. "I know how much that job meant to you. So that's what you wanted to talk to me about tonight?"

"Partly," Charon said.

Porthos turned in his chair until he could meet his friend's gaze head on.

"I know you won't ask, so I'm gonna offer," the Musketeer said. "I've got some savings put away, it's not a lot but you can 'ave it all to 'elp you back on your feet. It's what families do, yeah?"

The older man smiled and reached out a hand to lightly grasp Porthos' neck.

"Thank you, mon frère, but that's not necessary. I got a good pay out from Kruger and I already have several very good job prospects."

"You wouldn't consider moving back to France, then?"

"Africa's my home now," Charon told him. "There's more opportunities in my line of work."

Porthos nodded again and his frown deepened.

"I gotta ask…why the lies?" he asked. "You didn't think I'd understand?"

"It just kind of happened," Charon explained with a shrug. "It's stupid but I suddenly felt like I needed to impress your friends."

Porthos understood his friend's sudden insecurity. Growing up, both he and Charon had experienced all kinds of bigotry and narrow-mindedness due to the colour of their skin, their backgrounds and their lack of formal education. Even after they'd joined the Army Troupes de Marines they'd felt an overwhelming need to be accepted. For Porthos, that feeling disappeared when he'd joined MASCAT and Alpha One. It saddened him to know that, after all Charon had achieved in his life, he was still seeking acceptance.

"You saved my life," Porthos told him. "All you 'ad to do to be accepted by my friends, was walk in the room."

Charon met the younger man's earnest gaze with a sceptical expression.

"Even Aramis?" he asked.

"Specially Aramis," Porthos affirmed before raising a curious eyebrow. "What do you mean? Did I miss something?"

Charon shrugged again.

"It's fine…forget I said anything."

"Hey, none of that," Porthos pressed. "Did somethin' 'appen?"

"Perhaps it was nothing but I got the feeling Aramis wasn't too pleased about me showing up and changing your plans tonight. And he certainly didn't take kindly to my critique of his hand-to-hand technique."

"Nah, you got it all wrong" Porthos replied. "It was 'Mis who insisted we 'ave dinner tonight. He's 'ad a rough time of it lately, wiv' his rehab and all but Aramis is a good man; the best."

"If you say so, mon frère," Charon replied with a smile that disguised his scepticism. "If you say so."

 **-o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o-**

Juggling a small cardboard box, Athos stepped from the elevator on the isolation ward of the Hôpital Institut Curie and headed down the corridor where Agents Benaud and Paquet watched his approach with keen eyes. To the untrained observer, the agents' casual stance gave no indication that they were ready to react with deadly intent.

"Something wrong?" Benaud asked. "You're not due to relieve us till morning."

"I was in the neighbourhood, thought I'd check in," Athos said. "Quiet night?"

"Crickets," Benaud reported. "No calls and no visitors except for the authorised medical staff."

"Vasseur has not made contact with his family for four days now," Paquet said. "Do you think he left them?"

"I think he's a man desperate to keep his family safe," Athos said. He glanced toward the door of Luc Vasseur's room, noting it was slightly ajar and the room darkened. "Are they sleeping?"

"The boy's sleeping. Madame Vasseur's was reading when I checked five minutes ago," Benaud replied.

Athos nudged the door open and peered around the corner, quietly clearing his throat in deference to the sleeping child.

"I am disturbing you?" he asked as Kamille Vasseur looked up from her crossword puzzle.

"That depends," the young woman said with a weary smile. "What's a twelve-letter word beginning with 'I' that means to lure, or ensnare by flattery, artful talk or inducements?'"

Athos pursed his lips thoughtfully as a moment's silence passed.

"Inveiglement," he said, watching as she filled in the answer.

"It fits," she grinned. "You may enter."

Nodding regally, Athos placed the box on the rolling table by the bed and turned to look at the sleeping boy.

"Knowing Luc's fondness for football, I assumed he'd be awake and watching the telecast," the Musketeer said.

"He tried to stay awake for it but he was just so exhausted," Kamille said with a watery smile. "The doctor called by this afternoon. Luc's blood counts are finally improving. Its early days but the new treatment appears to be working."

The lead agent's face reflected his genuine relief and a rare smile enhanced his handsome features.

"That is tremendous news," he said, "and, dare I say, cause for celebration."

Kamille glanced at the box on the table.

"You didn't happen to smuggle in a bottle of champagne, did you?" she teased.

"Better," Athos replied as he removed the contents. "I have apple pastries and coffee."

"From the cafeteria?"

"Perish the thought," the Musketeer grimaced as he placed the pastries before her.

"Mmm…they look delicious," Kamille said, sobering suddenly. "I just wish Patric was here to share the news."

"He believes his absence is keeping you safe," Athos replied.

"It's not keeping us safe," the young woman replied, a hint of frustration colouring her tone. "You and Porthos and the men outside this door are keeping us safe. Patric needs to give himself up. That's the only way we can ever be a family again. I just…I just don't understand why he hasn't called?"

"He will call," the Musketeer told her. "You'll see."

"How can you be so certain?" she asked. "Maybe those men have found him? He could be hurt or worse, he could be…"

"No good can come from such speculation," Athos told her. "Patric has successfully evaded capture for three weeks, has he not? Everything he has done has been because he loves you and your son. That has not changed."

Kamille swiped at the traitorous tears that spilled down her cheeks. Although the Musketeer was gifted with eloquence, he was far more adept at suppressing emotions than discussing them and found himself anxious to steer the conversation in another direction. He handed the woman a brightly coloured gift bag from the box.

"Perhaps when Luc awakens, you could give him this."

The young woman eyed it curiously before reaching into the bag and withdrawing a DVD.

"Kaeloo!" she said. "This is Luc's favourite television show…how did you know?"

"Musketeers are required to be all seeing and all knowing. It's in the job description," Athos replied with a small grin. "And…I may have overheard him telling Porthos."

"He'll love it," Kamille said, smiling warmly at her sleeping son. "He's been so incredibly brave through all of this. He's usually so active and vibrant; he's funny and mischievous with the cheekiest smile – people can't help but to be drawn to him. I think he hates the boredom as much as he hates being ill."

"My friend, Aramis, has many of the same traits." Athos told her.

"Is he six, too?"

Athos thought about his answer and nodded his head.

"Yes, I believe sometimes he is," he drawled.

The young woman choked back a laugh and her chin began to quiver as she, again, struggled with her composure.

"You and Porthos have been so kind to us," she whispered.

Athos nodded his head in acknowledgement but the hint of more tears had him glancing at his watch and making his way to the door.

"I should leave," he said. "Agents Benaud and Paquet will check on you periodically. Should you require anything, you need only let them know. Porthos and I will return in the morning."

"Athos?" Kamille asked. "If I offered you half an apple pastry to stay a little longer, would that be considered inveiglement?"

Another moment of silence stretched between them.

"Most definitely," the agent replied, moving an empty chair closer to the table. "But it would also be my pleasure."

 **-o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o-**

"There must be some kind of mistake," Aramis told the usher. "Our tickets are for the VIP section not… _here._ "

"I assure you, Monsieur, there is no mistake," the usher smiled. "Monsieur Moreau phoned this afternoon. He is unable to attend tonight's game and instructed us to extend our finest hospitality to you and your friend. My name is Farrin and my team is waiting to be of service. Please, come in."

The Musketeers exchanged a confused look before following the usher inside. D'Artagnan whistled softly as he glanced around the luxurious private viewing box. A fully stocked bar, complete with bartender, was located near the back of the room with a comfortable sitting area nearby, presumably for socializing before and after the game. An array of delicious looking snacks and canapes were available from a small servery to the left. At the front of the room, two large monitors were linked to the live telecast, offering instant replays and pre and post-game interviews, while a gallery of twelve large, leather arm chairs were perfectly positioned to enjoy the magnificent view of the field below.

Aramis stood staring at the floodlit field below.

"D'Artagnan, I believe I have died and gone to football heaven," he uttered before casting a grin in the younger man's direction.

Farrin returned, carrying a tray of canapes and serviettes and the young men shrugged and helped themselves.

"Maurice will be tending bar for you tonight, Messieurs, he will be by to take your orders directly," the young man said handling them a menu each. "These are your dinner menus. I will give you a few moments to decide."

"Dinner?" d'Artagnan repeated.

"Yes, Monsieur," Farrin nodded. "A three-course meal will be provided during the half-time interval."

"Of course," the Gascon nodded.

"Are the seats assigned?" Aramis asked.

"No, Monsieur, you may sit anywhere you wish," Farrin replied.

"And…when will the others be joining us?" the marksman asked.

"Others, Monsieur?"

"Monsieur Moreau's other guests," Aramis clarified, waving a hand around the vacant room.

Farrin's brow creased in a frown.

"Tonight, you are Monsieur Moreau's only guests. Make yourselves at home. Should you need anything at all, please do not hesitate to let me know."

The Musketeers took their seats and immediately the bartender appeared, bestowing each of them with a glass of champagne and taking their drinks order. Looking through the menu at the choice of meals, Aramis sighed audibly.

"Something wrong?" d'Artagnan asked.

"I was rather looking forward to a greasy galette-saucisse," he quipped, remembering Charon's earlier disparaging remark.

"Porthos will blow a gasket when he finds out what he missed," the Gascon said before adding playfully. "We should send him a selfie."

"A selfie?" Aramis exclaimed. "What are we, twelve?"

Chagrined, the younger man nodded then looked up in surprize as Aramis jumped to his feet.

"It will be a much better photo if we get Farrin to take it," Aramis grinned mischievously. "Come, brother…and bring your champagne!"

 **-o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o-**

With one hand planted firmly against his aching ribs, Porthos used the other to wipe the tears of laughter from his eyes as he struggled to bring his breathing under control.

"I 'aven't thought about that for years," he chortled.

"We shared a lot of good times, mon frère," Charon stated.

"And some not so good," Porthos replied. "But I've missed this…I've missed you. I'm sorry I 'aven't been in touch as regular as I should 'ave."

"We're both guilty on that account, my friend," the older man replied. "I have my life and you have yours."

"It wasn't s'posed to be like that," Porthos said. "We made a promise when we were at the home – we said we would always look out for each other; we'd always be together."

Charon looked at the younger man with affection.

"We were children," he replied. "But, if memory serves, we _were_ together until you decided to return to France four years ago."

The Musketeer's expression darkened and Charon met the younger man's eyes.

"Porthos, the Army declared me medically unfit, but you could have made something of yourself – you could have been an officer."

The Musketeer should his head vehemently.

"I couldn't stay in the Army, not after 'ow they treated you," he said.

"I appreciate that," Charon chuckled. "but you didn't have to leave Africa?"

Porthos smiled sadly.

"You 'ad Flea and the new job…I 'ad to find a life of my own...and I missed Paris."

"Plus…it's not every day that a Légion d'honneur recipient comes knocking on your door to recruit you into France's elite intelligence agency," Charon teased.

"It wasn't like that," Porthos said with a bashful grin. "But the day the cap'n offered me the chance of a commission with MASCAT, he changed my life."

"Sounds like MASCAT is all you thought it would be."

"Everything and more," the younger man said. "Being a Musketeer is the best thing I've ever done with my life. I feel like I'm finally making a difference, you know?"

"If you wanted to make a difference, mon frère, you could've done that when I asked you to come back to Africa and work with me. We could've been great together."

"I know…and I appreciated the offer, I really did," Porthos said. "But the timing wasn't right. I'd not long 'ad my commission and I had…responsibilities 'ere that I couldn't turn my back on. I thought you were okay wiv' that."

Charon forced a smile.

"Just because I accepted your decision, doesn't mean I had to like it," he said. "So, tell me about MASCAT. What have they got you working on at the moment?"

Porthos collected the empty plates and walked them back into the kitchen.

"I'm not s'posed to talk about a working case," Porthos said with an apologetic grimace.

Charon huffed a laugh.

"Relax, Porthos, this isn't an interrogation. You're like a brother to me and I'm interested to know what you've being doing, that's all."

Returning to his seat at the table, the Musketeer drained the last mouthful of wine from his glass before looking at the older man with a hint of regret reflected in his dark eyes.

"You're right," he shrugged. "I'm sorry. We've been working a gun-smuggling operation for a couple of weeks now."

"Sounds pretty low-key for MASCAT," Charon replied.

"There's more to it than that. It's a big operation and there's a nice family caught right in the middle. But we're making headway. We're close to cracking the whole thing wide open."

"I wouldn't expect anything less," he said as he looked at Porthos' empty glass. "How about another round?"

"Sure," Porthos said as he attempted to stand. "I 'ave another bottle in the fridge."

"Allow me," Charon told him. Gathering the empty bottle, the older man rose to his feet and headed toward the kitchen.

Porthos glanced at his watch, noting that the PSG game was about to start and a pang of guilt twisted in his gut. Despite Aramis' insistence to the contrary, Porthos had seen the disappointment in his friend's eyes. Even though they'd found a more than adequate replacement in d'Artagnan, the larger Musketeer was determined to make it up to the marksman.

His musing was disturbed by a gasp from the kitchen. Launching to his feet, Porthos raced across the living room to find Charon bent forward with his eyes scrunched tightly closed and his hand grasping the middle of his back.

"Charon!" Porthos said, placing a steadying hand on his friend's shoulder. "Charon what is it?"

"My back…"

"What can I do?" Porthos insisted. "What do ya need?"

"Pills…in the pocket of my j-jacket."

Striding quickly toward the guestroom, Porthos stopped when he caught sight of Charon's jacket draped over the back of the couch. Finding the pills, he returned to the kitchen and opened the bottle.

"How many?" he asked.

"One…just one," Charon rasped.

In a matter of seconds, the ailing man was handed the tablet and a glass of water and he swallowed it eagerly.

Porthos continued to stare worriedly for several moments until Charon's expression eased and his breathing began to even out.

"How often does that 'appen?" Porthos asked.

The older man shrugged one shoulder, wincing as he did so.

"Often enough for you to carry these tablets wiv you," Porthos stated sombrely.

"Don't give me that look," the older man said, noting the guilt in the Musketeers eyes. "This isn't your fault."

"You got that shrapnel in your back when you came back for me in the Congo," Porthos stated.

"And I'd do it again, mon frère, just as you would for me. Family, remember?"

Charon winced again as he started to straighten.

"Easy now," Porthos said moving a kitchen stool closer for his friend to sit.

"I'm fine," Charon said through clenched teeth. "It was a mild spasm."

"Nothin' about that was mild," Porthos replied. "It ain't right. After all this time, surely there's a doc somewhere who can 'elp."

"Maybe there is," Charon replied with a tight grin, "right here in Paris. I have an appointment to see him tomorrow afternoon."

"What? Why didn't you say somethin' earlier?"

Charon squeezed the younger man's shoulder and met Porthos' questioning gaze.

"Because you've been carrying this misplaced guilt on your shoulders for years. I didn't want to add to that."

"Is it risky?"

"Well, the shrapnel is lodged close to my spine so there's always a risk but, after four years, it's a risk worth considering."

"What's Flea think of all this then?"

"Flea agrees that the decision is mine," Charon said. "Relax, Porthos, it's a consultation, that's all."

The older man's face contorted into a tear-inducing yawn and he grinned apologetically.

"I'm sorry, my friend. These painkillers have a kick like a mule. Would you mind if we called it a night? It's been a long day and a good night's rest often helps."

"'course," Porthos replied, assisting his friend to the guestroom before grabbing a couple of medi-heat packs from the adjoining bathroom. By the time he'd returned Charon was tentatively easing himself under the blankets, grimacing from the residual pain of the spasm.

"I could take a personal day," Porthos said as leaned against the doorjamb. "I'll go with you to the doc's."

"That's not necessary, mon ami. Besides, didn't you tell me that you have an early start and your team is already short-handed?"

"Yeah…you're right," Porthos replied glumly.

"Stop worrying," Charon told him. "One of these tablets can put me out for ten to twelve hours. I'll have good night's rest and a quiet morning. It'll be fine."

With a sigh that came from his boot tops, Porthos nodded and switched off the light.

"Rest easy, brother," he said. "I'll be up for a while yet in case you need anythin'."

"Good night, mon frère," Charon replied quietly as Porthos closed the door behind him.

 **-o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o-**

The former Marine sat heavily on the couch and scrubbed his face with his hands. Charon had filled many roles in Porthos' life from the time the Musketeer was five years old – he'd been his protector, provider, confidante, friend, brother – and when that bullet caught him high in the chest in Africa, Charon became his saviour.

They had tried to keep in regular touch after their respective discharges from the Army Troupes de Marines but Porthos had returned to France and, as their lives proceeded down different paths, the calls and emails became less frequent. Still, Charon meant the world to Porthos and his gut churned painfully when he realised that, in recent months, his oldest friend had lost his job and had struggled with crippling back pain and Porthos had known nothing about it.

He startled slightly when his cell vibrated on the coffee table, the unique ringtone signalling an Alpha One group message from Aramis.

A photo of his two younger teammates materialised – standing in a private viewing box, both holding a glass of champagne and wearing the biggest shit-eating grins Porthos had ever seen. The photo was captioned with the words -

" _There was a problem with the VIP seating but, don't worry, we're making do."_

The former Marine's eyebrows rose to meet his hairline.

"You gotta be kiddin' me," he muttered.

Almost immediately, Athos' reply appeared.

" _And yet, root canal is still my preferred choice."_

Porthos chuckled before sending a reply of his own.

" _Pick me up for breakfast at 5AM…and stay outta jail this time!"_

 **-o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o-**

 **Very grateful for your kind messages of support and understanding and for your interest in this story. G**


	3. Chapter 3

A/N For those who may not know, the long delay in this story is due to a medical issue that required brain surgery and loads of chemo. Though my prognosis is optimistic, I have lost some cognitive and memory function which has affected my ability to write – among other things. Thankfully, my recovery is ahead of schedule, although (to me) it is painstaking slow.

However, I am nothing, if not determined and I will be working hard to find a way to finish this story. To be honest, this chapter was already half completed so not a huge stretch, however, it is unlikely that the remaining chapters will be posted quickly. It's rather audacious of me but may I ask for your continued patience while I get my swing back?

It also occurred to me that there was no mention of Charon's surname in the episode The Homecoming. Perhaps this was because, like many the people living in poverty in the Court of Miracles, he did not have a surname or had not yet selected one for himself. For the purpose of this story, I have called him Charon Dubois.

Here goes nothing. :) Gxx

 **Betrayal Never Comes from Your Enemies**

 **The Musketeers – Alpha One**

 **Chapter Three**

Despite the very early hour, d'Artagnan and Aramis were in high spirits. They had spent the previous evening basking in a luxurious private viewing box, with more food and drink than they could possibly consume. But, best of all, they had cheered their beloved PSG to a hard-fought victory against arch rivals Olympique de Marseille.

The five-minute drive from the Gascon's home to Porthos' apartment building, gave them just enough time to rock out a couple of verses of _Allez Paris Saint-Germain_ _before, fortuitously, sna_ gging a parking spot close by.

Grabbing a red and blue coloured gift bag from the back seat, d'Artagnan jogged to catch up with Aramis who used his spare key to access the foyer of the secured complex. Exiting the elevator, they continued down the long corridor when d'Artagnan's progress was suddenly halted by Aramis' arm across his chest. The marksman had assumed a crouched stance, his Glock 19 drawn in one smooth movement and aimed at Porthos' door. Noting that it was slightly ajar, d'Artagnan dropped the gift bag he was carrying and replicated Aramis' as he drew his own weapon.

With senses on high alert, they moved silently into position. Aramis leaned back slightly, intending to kick the door and breach the apartment, but the door swung silently open and Porthos stood with his hands raised defensively.

"Easy," he said quietly. "Stand down, s'all good."

Almost sagging with relief, the younger men holstered their side-arms, each giving Porthos an irritated glare.

"What?" the larger man asked, keeping his voice low as he led them into the living room. "I didn't want you knockin' and wakin' Charon." Turning to Aramis, the former Marine pointed a finger in accusation. "And don't think I didn't see you getting' ready to kick my door in again."

"Again?" d'Artagnan echoed, looking at the marksman. "You've kicked his door in before?"

"Once," Aramis replied, then added in a stage whisper. "He's still a little sensitive about it."

The Gascon looked from one man to the other, noting the larger man's disgruntled expression, his large arms folded over his chest.

"Why do I get the feeling there's another memorable story here?" he grinned.

Aramis continued, placing his hand over his heart. "I should start by saying that my intentions were truly honourable and fuelled by my concern for Porthos' wellbeing."

"Noted," d'Artagnan nodded, leaning casually against the kitchen counter and signalling for Aramis to continue.

"Well, several months back, shortly before you joined MASCAT, Porthos and I had made plans to meet for a few drinks after work. When he didn't show and failed to answer my calls, I became concerned. Loyal friend that I am, I came here to check on him." A hint of a smile hovered over the marksman's lips. "I was about to use my key and let myself in when I heard loud moaning from within. Believing my best friend to be in mortal danger, I drew my weapon and kicked in the door - only to find that Porthos was, shall we say, _entertaining_ a lovely and very vociferous mademoiselle."

D'Artagnan ducked his head but Porthos caught the grin the younger man was trying to hide.

"It wasn't funny," Porthos grouched. "Thanks to Aramis and 'is flair for dramatic entrances, I not only 'ad to replace the door but Paulette refused to see me again."

"Come now, Porthos, it's not all doom and gloom," Aramis grinned cheekily. "After all, I likely spared you the added cost of sound-proofing your apartment."

Unable to suppress his amusement, d'Artagnan's loud guffaw was quickly shushed by the larger Musketeer.

"Oy, keep it down," he said. "Charon 'ad a rough night and I don't wanna wake 'im."

Aramis frowned.

"Everything alright, mon ami?" he asked.

Porthos told them of Charon's severe back spasm, his ongoing need for painkillers and the chance that the shrapnel could be removed. The older man was known for wearing his emotions on his sleeve and Aramis and d'Artagnan could see the genuine concern in the former Marine's eyes as the silence in the room grew uncomfortably thick.

"Oh, I almost forgot," d'Artagnan exclaimed, changing the subject as he handed Porthos the gift bag he was still holding. "This is for Luc."

"What's all this then," Porthos asked as he saw the multiple items in the bag. "I only asked for a beanie."

"Let's just say we were carried away on a wave of euphoria following a great PSG victory," the Gascon grinned.

"Well, you did good," the larger man said before raising his eyes to meet those of his brothers. "He's gonna love all this."

"Perhaps, when he's well, his parents would allow us to take him to game," Aramis stated. "d'Artagnan and I are yet to meet this courageous young man."

"Toughest kid I ever met. When I think of everything e's been through…" Porthos' dark eyes glistened suspiciously for a fleeting moment as he cleared his throat of emotion. "You pair appear to 'ave 'ad yourselves a good time last night?"

"We had a _great_ time," Aramis and d'Artagnan enthused simultaneously, emphasizing their statement with a fist bump.

Porthos rolled his eyes at the younger agents' antics.

"You can tell me about it later," he said. "Let me check on Charon before we leave. Athos will be waitin'."

The larger man retreated to the guestroom but was back within a minute.

"He wasn't kiddin' when 'e said them painkillers 'ave a kick like a mule – 10 hours and he's still out like a light."

Quickly scribbling a note, Porthos left the spare keys to the apartment in a prominent position on the kitchen counter where they couldn't be overlooked. With one more concerned look toward the closed door of the guest room, Porthos grabbed his backpack and following his teammates; pulling the door closed behind him as they headed back to d'Artagnan's car.

 **-o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o-**

"Shotgun," Porthos said, nudging Aramis out of the way and opening the front passenger door.

"Wait…what? You can't call shotgun when I've already been sitting there," Aramis protested.

Porthos grinned shamelessly at his friend.

"Well, you aint sitting there now," he said as he climbed into the car and secured the seat belt. "Besides, I'm bigger than you, I need more space."

With his mouth hanging open in mock indignation, the medic looked across the roof of the vehicle to d'Artagnan who shrugged sheepishly before disappearing behind the wheel. Porthos suppressed a laugh as Aramis climbed into the rear seat, grumbling about the lack of proper passenger etiquette. D'Artagnan started the engine then thumped the palm of his hand against the steering wheel.

"Damn," the young man said. "We left Luc's gift bag upstairs."

Switching off the engine, the Gascon made to release his seat belt but Aramis was already climbing from the vehicle.

"You stay," the medic said. "I'll be right back."

"Go easy, yeah," Porthos told him. "Don't wake Charon."

"Of course," Aramis said before slowly jogging toward Porthos' building.

"Oy!" the larger man called to Aramis' retreating back. "Make sure you use the key this time! I aint payin' for another door."

 **-o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o-**

The elevator stopped and Aramis hurriedly squeezed between the doors before they were fully open. Making his way down the long corridor to Porthos' apartment he removed the keys from the pocket of his jacket, unlocked the door and silently entered. He stopped abruptly at the sight of Charon, sitting at Porthos' small desk which was located in a small nook off the living room. The desk drawers and the small filing cabinet were open with files obviously disturbed.

The marksman watched silently for a moment, using the time to control the wave of suspicion and anger that was surging through his veins. Unable to remain quiet, he cleared his throat, noting the way Charon sprung from the chair and spun toward him. The older man quickly schooled his expression, replacing his surprize with feigned casualness.

"Aramis," he grinned. "I didn't hear you come in."

"Clearly," the Musketeer replied.

Charon looked at the desk and then back to Aramis.

"This isn't what it looks like," he told him.

"I'm pleased to hear that," Aramis responded, fighting to keep his voice even and his tone pleasant. "Because, from here, it looks like you've broken into Porthos' desk and are rifling through his personal files."

"See? Like I said…it's not what it looks like at all," Charon replied, his smile was relaxed and cheerful but his eyes were anything but. Aramis could tell the man resented having to explain his actions. "Porthos said he'd leave his apartment keys and I couldn't find them. I thought he might have left them in his desk."

Aramis raised a quizzical eyebrow and walked to the kitchen counter where Porthos keys were sitting in plain sight.

"You mean these?" he asked.

Charon shook his head and huffed a laugh.

"Well that's embarrassing," he grinned. "I take painkillers for a back injury and, I'm afraid, sometimes it takes me a while to shake off the drowsiness. Thanks for the help."

The younger man nodded and forced his features into a mask of neutrality.

"Porthos and d'Artagnan are waiting for me," he said, collecting the gift bag and nodding toward the door.

"Of course," Charon replied

Aramis turned and started to leave when Charon called his name. The Musketeer stood in the open doorway before looking over his shoulder.

"Maybe we could meet later?" the older man suggested. "Get a bite to eat?"

After the previous day's frosty reception, Charon's sudden attempt to be cordial was puzzling but Aramis wasn't buying into whatever game the man was playing.

"Perhaps," he replied without commitment.

Without another word, the marksman closed the door behind him and strode back to the elevator. Pressing the button for the foyer, Aramis leaned heavily against the wall and closed his eyes. The spark of uneasiness he'd felt in Charon's presence the day before had ignited quickly into an inferno of suspicion and distrust. In a fleeting moment of self-doubt, the marksman questioned whether he had misjudged the situation but his strong intuition told him otherwise.

Arriving back at the car, Aramis climbed silently into the backseat, only vaguely aware of d'Artagnan still effusing excitement as he gave Porthos a rundown of the game the night before. The larger man turned in his seat so he could see Aramis.

"Sounds like you pair 'ad a great night," he smiled.

"Um…yeah, yeah it was…great," Aramis replied distractedly.

"You get it?"

"What?" the medic asked.

"Waddya mean, what?" Porthos chuckled. "The bag you went back for."

"Oh…of course," Aramis replied as he passed the bag to Porthos who took another quick look at the contents.

"Luc is gonna love this," he said, his smile quickly turning to a frown. "You didn' wake Charon, did you?"

Aramis looked at the genuine concern in the larger man's eyes.

"No," he replied quietly. "I didn't wake him."

 **-o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o-**

Just four blocks from the Garrison, the Musketeers sat at their usual table at a small, 24 hour café as Athos relayed the salient points of his briefing with Treville and the case deadline now imposed upon them by President Bourbon.

Nodding in all the right places, d'Artagnan glanced furtively at Aramis who was unusually quiet; his breakfast barely touched. The marksman's earlier buoyant mood had disappeared and even his favourite waitress could not engage him in their usual flirtatious by-play. Though d'Artagnan couldn't say for sure, he was fairly certain something had happened when the medic had returned alone to Porthos' apartment.

"Porthos and I will continue our protection duty at the hospital," Athos instructed, his voice dragging the Gascon from his musing. "D'Artagnan, I need you to focus on breaking through the firewalls and establishing the origin of the money paid to Nazzar and Vasseur. Aramis will be checking the CCTV footage of the Algerian jail. It has, most likely, been doctored, however, check for any abnormalities they may have overlooked. Under no circumstances are you to shirk your physiotherapy session at 1700 hours. Are we clear?"

Athos looked at his team, waiting for them to acknowledge his directions and Porthos and d'Artagnan both nodded their understanding. The lead agent's attention turned to Aramis who was staring into his coffee mug.

"What's wrong with him?" Athos asked.

D'Artagnan shrugged his shoulders, averting his eyes and hoping not to be drawn further into the conversation. The lead agent didn't miss the guilty expression but decided to let it go – for now.

Porthos gave the medic a nudge with his elbow.

"Hey, 'Mis, you alright?"

"I'm sorry, what?" Aramis asked.

"Did you hear even one word I said?" Athos inquired.

"Of course, I did," the younger man replied. "You and Porthos have protection duty at the hospital, d'Artagnan will continue his attempts to crack the firewalls and trace the source of the funds while I check the CCTV from the Algerian prison and under no circumstances am I to shirk my physio session."

Athos nodded his head at the accurate summation but his gut was telling him that Aramis' attention was elsewhere. He met the younger man's gaze.

"Richelieu is breathing down Treville's neck on this one. We cannot afford any distractions. I need your head in the game," he said.

"My head's in the game," the medic replied with a hint of indignation and straightening his posture.

"One more thing," Athos said. "Whilst your initiative and intent are commendable, you should know that if you so much as look at a screwdriver or have the urge to dismantle any electrical appliance, d'Artagnan has orders to tazer you and handcuff your unconscious body to your desk until we return. Do you understand?"

D'Artagnan guffawed as Aramis' jaw fell open in surprize but before he could form a reply, Athos rose to his feet, leaving sufficient cash on the table to cover the cost of their breakfast and a substantial tip.

"Very well," he said, "gentlemen, we have an investigation to close."

They walked together to the small parking lot where Porthos and Athos veered toward the lead agent's car and headed to the hospital. Once d'Artagnan and Aramis were seated in the Gascon's car, the younger man turned his attention to the marksman.

"Okay, out with it," he said.

"Out with what?" Aramis replied, raising his eyebrows inquiringly.

"Come on, man," the younger man insisted. "Something happened when you went back to Porthos' apartment."

"I don't know what you're talking about?"

"Aramis!" d'Artagnan hissed in exasperation. "You think I didn't notice the sudden change in your mood? Something happened with Charon, didn't it?"

The marksman didn't reply but the way he averted his eyes told d'Artagnan all he needed to know.

"Aramis," the Gascon pressed gently. "You can trust me."

The marksman closed his eyes and sighed deeply, carding his fingers through his unruly dark curls.

"Aramis?"

"This stays between us," Aramis said, his expression as serious as d'Artagnan had ever seen.

"Of course."

Aramis explained how he had returned to Porthos' apartment and found Charon rifling through the former Marine's personal files. When he'd finished his explanation, he waited for d'Artagnan's response.

"I know you two didn't get off on the right foot," the Gascon said, "but have you even considered that he may have been telling the truth?"

Aramis sighed internally. It was obvious the younger man did not share his suspicion of Charon.

"Forget it," he said. "I shouldn't have said anything."

"No, no…I'm glad you did," d'Artagnan told him. "It's just that, well, you said it yourself… Charon is like family to Porthos. Maybe we should give him the benefit of any doubt – for Porthos' sake."

Aramis felt his stomach clench painfully and the hair at the back of his neck rise. His instincts were screaming that Charon was not to be trusted but, as yet, the marksman had no concrete evidence of any deception or wrong doing. Forcing his body to relax, Aramis grinned at his younger teammate.

"You're right, of course, mon ami," he said with an almost perfect replica of his care-free smile. "And we best get to the Garrison before Treville has our hides."

 **-o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o-**

Arriving at the _Hôpital Institut Curie,_ Porthos and Athos parked their car and headed for the isolation ward where Alpha Four were currently guarding Kamille Vasseur and her young son, Luc. The larger man stopped dead in his tracks in reaction to Athos' casually delivered news. The lead agent had continued walking, taking several steps before noticing his teammate was no longer by his side. He turned to see Porthos standing as still as a statue, his mouth open and dark eyes wide with surprize.

"You're kiddin' me," Porthos asked in a rough voice.

"I would never joke about such a thing," Athos replied. "Madame Vasseur received the news last night. Although young Luc still has a long road ahead, the boy's latest test results look extremely positive."

In the blink of an eye, Athos found his arms pinned to his sides and he was lifted into the air in an exuberant bear hug.

"Yes!" Porthos exclaimed with a booming laugh as he spun the lead agent around. "That's one tough kid."

"Indeed he is," Athos agreed, "Now release me before I shoot you."

Chuckling at the other man's obvious discomfort, Porthos put the lead agent down, noting the stain of a blush colouring both cheeks. Rolling his eyes before regaining his composure, Athos' expression grew sombre as he placed his hand on the larger man's shoulder.

"Porthos, I am not uncaring of Luc's situation, however, we must remember why we are here."

Porthos opened his mouth to object but the lead agent continued.

"Your big heart does you credit, brother, but regardless of the circumstances, it is against protocol to purchase gifts or to establish relationships that could distract us from our duty."

"I know," Porthos replied. "It's just, after everythin' that kid's been through…it's great news, yeah?"

Athos allowed a rare smile before replying.

"The fact remains that the boy and his mother are principals under our protection," he said nodding toward the gift bag the larger man was carrying. "For their safety, and our own, we must maintain a professional distance at all times."

The former Marine nodded resignedly.

"You're right. Dunno what I was thinkin'," Porthos said. "I'll jus' give 'im this football gear and then it'll be professional distance all the way. You'll see."

"I'm glad to hear it," Athos replied. "Come, we need to relieve Alpha Four."

Moments later, they turned into the far end of the corridor and approached the guarded room, noting Agents Benaud and Paquet standing outside the door. The Alpha Four agents exchanged a few quiet words of greeting before Paquet disappeared inside.

"Anything to report?" Athos asked Benaud.

"All quiet," Benaud replied. "No calls, no unauthorised visitors. But Madame Vasseur mentioned that she'd like a private word with you before you started your shift. Paquet has just gone to get her."

All eyes turned to the door as it opened as Kamille Vasseur exited. The young woman was finger combing her hair and attempting to brush the creases from her blouse. Looking at Agent Benaud, she cleared her throat meaningfully.

"I'll be inside if you need me," the agent said before joining his partner in Luc's room.

"Bonjour, Madame Vasseur," Athos frowned. "You wished to speak with us?"

"Bonjour, Messieurs," Kamille replied, tentatively.

"Somethin' wrong, Madame," Porthos frowned. "Is Luc okay?"

"On the contrary, Monsieur Porthos, Luc is happier today than I have seen him in several weeks…and it is because of you, both of you."

"I don' understand," Porthos frowned.

"My son has been so sick and he has missed his father terribly," Kamille said, one hand ruthlessly brushing a traitorous tear from her cheek. "Your generosity has been so precious to him...to us."

"You give us too much credit, Madame," Athos told her. "After all, we are merely doing our jobs."

"You have done much more than that, Monsieur Athos. Right now, Luc is watching the Kaeloo DVDs you bought for him last night," Kamille giggled. "It is the fourth time this morning, I think he will soon wear it out. The coffee, the apple pastries and your wise counsel has helped me more than you will ever know."

Porthos' lips quirked in a half grin and his eyebrows travelled toward his hairline as he watched Athos shift uncomfortably and refuse to make eye contact. The young woman then turned her attention to the former Marine.

"And Monsieur Porthos, the way you speak to my son… it has given him hope and the strength to fight this terrible illness. He thinks the world of you. If I live to be 100, I can never repay your kindness. I just wanted you to know that."

Leaning forward she placed a chaste kiss on the cheeks of both men before quickly returning to her son's side.

The two agents stood silently for a moment, processing the young woman's words. It was Porthos who finally broke the silence.

"So…you called by 'ere last night?" he asked casually.

"I did," Athos replied, still not making eye contact.

"On our one night off?"

"Correct," the normally stoic agent added with a slight wince.

"And you bought gifts, coffee and pastries."

"Porthos-"

The larger man clapped a hand on the lead agent's shoulder and opened the door to Luc's room.

"Good job maintaining a professional distance, brother," Porthos quipped before disappearing inside.

Athos shook his head and huffed a laugh before following his partner inside.

 **-o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o-**

Thanks to the influence Minister Richelieu appeared to have over President Bourbon, MASCAT and Alpha One had only until the end of the week to solve this gun-running case before it, once again, became the purview of Richelieu's GIGN and the pressure to find new leads was increasing exponentially.

D'Artagnan and Aramis had spent the morning at their respective desks, both diligently trying to find the piece of the puzzle that would blow the case wide open. While the Gascon continued to use his specialist IT training to create his own code breaker applications capable of breaching the sophisticated security protocol of the gun-runners accounts, Aramis had been totally engrossed in the security footage from the Algerian prison, looking for any irregularities.

"I've got something?" Aramis stated, leaning precariously back in his chair as he rubbed his throbbing temples.

"Other than a headache?" the younger man quipped.

"Hopefully," the marksman responded. "Come take a look."

The Gascon grabbed a packet of Tylenol from the top drawer of his desk before positioning himself behind his teammate and peering at the monitor. He immediately noticed the lack of clarity and poor quality of the footage.

"No wonder you have a headache," d'Artagnan commented. "You've been staring at this footage for hours."

Aramis washed down two painkillers and grimaced at the taste.

"According to Athos, the Algerian Minister for Corrective Services said this video was the highest quality copy they had."

"Looks like they've never bothered to change the tapes," d'Artagnan frowned. "They've used them so much they've been scraped down to the plastic. What did you find?"

"As you know, all visitors to a prison facility enter and leave via a reception area. Their arrival and exit is monitored by a Biometric system that registers their identification."

"Transfers the finger prints to templates for privacy and stores them for future visits," d'Artagnan said. "Go on."

"I've been checking this footage all morning…watch this."

Clicking away at the keyboard, Aramis rewound the footage several frames before allowing it to play again. He paused the film when a man wearing jeans torn at both knees, a dark hoodie and a baseball cap walked through the visitor's reception area toward the exit.

"I've checked the footage three times. There's no sign of this guy checking in, yet here he is checking out," the medic said.

"Maybe he's a guard who's just come off duty?"

"He's wearing a visitor's lanyard which would seem to indicate he was processed as a visitor. But, watch this..." Aramis rewound the tape again, "there's two CCTV cameras in that area and he angles his head at just the right time so neither gets a good shot at his face."

"So, if there's no video evidence of him checking in and the camera's don't get a good look at his face, maybe we can request the records of the Biometric system and match them to the time the guy exits."

"I tried," Aramis said. "I placed a call to the Minister of Corrective Services in Algiers. He told me to have Captain Treville place the request in writing and they may get around to it within the next 30 days."

"Helpful," d'Artagnan scoffed. "So, there's no way to identify this guy."

"Perhaps there is…," Aramis replied, fingers flying over his keyboard as he searched for something on the monitor and then paused the footage. "There!"

d'Artagnan frowned.

"Where? I can't see his face. Like you said, he turns his face from the cameras at the perfect moment."

"From the cameras, yes," Aramis agreed. "But not from the vending machine. When he turns away from the camera, just for an instant, he faces the vending machine and there's a reflection on the glass."

The younger man leaned forward, peering at the fuzzy, distorted images on the screen.

"Even if you're right," he said, "the image is too grainy. We'll never get a positive ID from that."

"Well, not like that, but there's got to be a way to clean it up…some kind of program or something?"

D'Artagnan's eyes widened. "The Star Witness program."

Aramis shrugged, indicating he'd never heard of it.

"It's an enhancement program," d'Artagnan explained. "I could add some homomorphic filtering, maybe some algorithmic enhancement or DNR Lacing."

"DNR what?"

"Lacing. It's a generalised technique for signal and image processing involving nonlinear mapping to differ-"

"d'Artagnan," Aramis interrupted, raising one hand in protest while the other pinched the bridge of his nose. "Headache, remember?"

"Sorry," the younger man said. "What I'm saying is, it can be done but it's a slow process."

"How slow?"

"Maybe 48 hours? There's no way to know for sure," d'Artagnan replied.

Aramis pushed his chair away from his desk and shot to his feet.

"Dammit, d'Artagnan, we don't have that kind of time!" he hissed.

The Gascon's dark eyes reflected his concern at the uncharacteristic outburst.

"I am aware of the time constraints, Aramis, but I can't work miracles," he said eyeing the marksman with concern. "The program will be done when it's done."

Whispering an expletive in Spanish, the marksman pressed the heels of both hands into his eyes before reaching out to lightly punch d'Artagnan's shoulder.

"Forgive me, brother, I have been staring at this monitor for too long and am in need of some fresh air. Allow me to make amends – you start the program and I'll buy our lunch. I'm starving."

"That'd be great," the younger man smiled but his expression grew serious a moment later. "Are you sure you're alright. You've been acting a little off since this morning."

"We are all frustrated by the lack of progress in this case, my friend," Aramis smiled. "Some fresh air and a nice lunch will see me right."

Aramis opened his locker and slipped into his shoulder holster and jacket. He patted his pockets, ensuring he was carrying his ID and wallet.

"I'll be twenty minutes," he told d'Artagnan. "The usual?"

The Gascon nodded agreeably. "But if you're intending to eat my fries again on your way back, you better get a larger serving. Oh…and no sauce."

"But I always get your fries with sauce."

"I know...and I always tell you that I hate sauce!"

"Since when?" the marksman asked.

"Since you stopped buying your own fries and started eating mine."

"In my defence, mon ami, I only eat your fries because you don't eat them."

 _"That's because you put sauce on them!"_ d'Artagnan growled in frustration before catching a glimpse of the marksman's cheeky grin.

The younger man huffed out a laugh and shook his head. If he had a Euro for every time Aramis wound him up, he'd be a rich man.

"Get out of here," he said, with a grin colouring his tone. He watched the marksman leave before turning his attention back to his computer.

 **-o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o-**

MASCAT's purview frequently brought them into contact with the worst kind of people humanity had to offer. Therefore, security was high priority and the safety of their agents and their civilian staff, was paramount. The ground floor reception area was sparsely furnished with a few practical chairs and a coffee table housing an assortment of outdated magazines. But the receptionists were positioned behind a wall of bullet-resistant glass with a heavily reinforced security door that required a successful retina scan to gain entry or to exit.

Opting to take the stairs rather than wait for the elevator, Aramis quickly made his way to the ground floor, feeling just the barest of twinges from his left thigh. As he opened the stairwell door, he heard the young receptionist speaking with a note of exasperation in her voice.

"Please, Monsieur," she said. "I have already told you several times, Agent Du Vallon is on assignment and I am not at liberty to divulge his location."

"Come on now, cherie," Charon replied smoothly. "I've already told you that Porthos and I are like brothers. I'm in town for such a short time and I'd like to surprize him for lunch. Where's the harm in that?"

"I'm sorry, Monsieur-"

Charon slammed his fists onto the counter.

"I know! I know! You're not at liberty!" he snapped tersely. "Then will you at least try paging Aramis for me or are you not at liberty to do that either?"

From his position near the stairwell, Aramis felt his stomach tighten with suspicion and simmering anger as he watched Charon try to coerce and then intimidate Porthos' location from the young receptionist. The young woman took a few steps backwards, her hand hovering over the "crash button." Aramis had half a mind to let her push it, knowing that there'd be a dozen heavily armed Musketeers swarming all over Charon within a minute. Instead, he made his presence known from the doorway.

"It's alright, Elyse," he said with a reassuring smile. "I'll handle this."

The young woman took a deep breath, her shoulders visibly relaxing with the marksman's presence. She watched as he exited the security door and strode purposefully across the room, to stand by Charon's side.

"What's this all about, Charon?" he asked with a steely edge to his voice. "What are you doing here?"

"Aramis!" the older man with an unnatural smile. "I was hoping to meet up with Porthos but it appears he is indisposed."

"As this young lady has already explained, Porthos is on assignment. His location is a matter for MASCAT personnel only. I'm sure you can understand that."

"My apologies, for being over-zealous," Charon replied. "It's just that Porthos and I have so little time together. I don't want to waste a moment."

"I can get a message to him if the matter is urgent."

"No, don't disturb him," Charon replied. "It can wait until tonight. What about that lunch we discussed? My treat."

"I'm afraid I cannot spare the time," Aramis told him. "We are working to a deadline. Now, if you'll excuse me, I need to get back."

As the younger man turned to walk back to the security door, Charon reached forward to firmly grab his wrist, halting his progress. Aramis' dark eyes flicked to Charon's grip before he met the other man's gaze with a look that could melt the ice caps.

"If you wish to keep that hand, you had better remove it… _now!"_ he growled.

Taking a step back, Charon raised his hands in submission.

"There's no need for hostility," he said indignantly. "I just wanted to ask a favour."

"Go on," Aramis replied curtly.

Charon shifted his weight from foot to foot, looking far less sure of himself.

"This morning's little…misunderstanding at the apartment," he said sheepishly. "I don't like to admit that the pain medication can leave me so…addled. Can we keep that whole thing between us? Porthos would only worry. Please, Aramis, for Porthos."

Aramis stared at the older man for a long moment, feeling his shoulders tense and his gut churn. Charon was anxious that Porthos not learn of their confrontation this morning at the apartment. The Musketeer could think of only one reason - whatever he was doing, he knew Porthos would not approve. Aramis knew he was being played; he just didn't know what Charon's endgame was, but he was prepared to see how this played out.

He nodded his head.

"So…you won't tell Porthos?" Charon prompted, bringing the Musketeer's attention back to their conversation.

Aramis forced a disarming smile and kept his voice low and steady.

"What you choose to tell Porthos regarding what happened is not my business," he replied. "But know this, should you be using your friendship to deceive or manipulate him in any way…I _will_ make it business."

Charon's expression darkened but, before he could respond, Aramis had returned to the Garrison stronghold via the security door and had disappeared into the stairwell. Standing at the bottom of the stairs, the Musketeer exhaled forcefully, ejecting his anger with an audible gust of air, and then breathed deeply until he felt the tightness in his chest begin to dissipate. Charon meant the world to Porthos; he regarded the man as family, but Aramis couldn't stop his inner voice from screaming a warning that something about the man just wasn't right. He decided, then and there, that he was going to find out what is was and, ignoring the protest of his injured thigh, he took the stairs two at a time in his rush to return to his office.

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 **More ASAP. Thank you for reading. Gxx**


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